Sheila’s flinty eyes flashed. ‘I don’t think you’re in any position to mock me, do you?’
But I was beyond caring. ‘What happens when Immy realises you’ve murdered me? Do you want my blood on your hands?’
‘I’ll only be carrying out Bill’s wishes.’
‘What?’
She let out an exasperated breath. ‘Bill sent me a text before he died asking me to take care of you.’
For a moment I was nonplussed, then I laughed. ‘My God, you really are mad. He meant look after me, not kill me!’
A flicker of doubt crossed her face, then she rolled her shoulders back. ‘There was no mistaking what he meant. He wanted you dead.’
‘Show me,’ I said, playing for time. ‘Show me the text and I’ll believe you.’
Her eyes darted from me to the door. ‘It’s all right,’ I said. ‘You can lock it. I won’t try to escape, I promise.’
She hesitated for a moment and then, with a slight shake of her head, turned and hurried to the door, locking it behind her. The urge to prove me wrong had been too much to resist. It was her Achilles heel, as I’d hoped it would be.
Now I needed to work out how to use her weakness to my advantage.
Chapter Forty-Eight
I was kneeling beside the sofa, my cheek next to Immy’s, when Sheila returned, holding the knife in one hand and an ancient Nokia phone in the other. She waved the knife at the armchair and yelled at me to sit down.
I turned to her, tears streaming down my face. ‘It’s Immy.’
‘What about her?’
‘She’s not… she’s not breathing.’
‘Don’t lie to me!’
‘Why would I lie about something like that? You’ve given her too many pills and you’ve killed her, you monster!’ I jumped up and lunged at her, not caring about the kitchen knife, my fingers curling in anticipation as I imagined them tightening around Sheila’s neck.
She jabbed the blade at me. As I ducked out of the way, the tip caught my cheek. For a second I felt nothing, then a searing pain hit me, and my hand flew to my face. Warm wetness oozed through my fingers, mingling with the tears.
‘You bitch!’ I howled.
But Sheila’s eyes were fixed on Immy’s lifeless body and she was muttering under her breath as she crossed the room.
‘Don’t you dare touch her!’ I yelled.
Sheila’s knees clicked as she crouched beside Immy. Kneeling would have been better, would have taken her longer to get to her feet if I missed, but there was nothing I could do about that. You know the answer. Don’t miss. I steadied my breathing and watched Sheila smooth Immy’s hair out of the way so she could feel her carotid artery for a pulse. I bounced on the balls of my feet. If I was going to do this, it had to be now. I picked up the onyx carriage clock from where I’d left it beside the sofa, raised it above me and smashed it against Sheila’s temple.
She crumpled to the floor with a groan, the knife and phone sliding from her grasp as she lost consciousness. I slipped the phone into my pocket, kicked the knife under the sofa and scooped Immy into my arms and sprinted from the room.
Broken glass crunched under my feet as I opened the front door. My tears had dried - what was the point of crying now? - and it wasn’t until I saw blood dripping onto Immy’s face that I realised I was still bleeding. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered except fleeing this house.
I scurried across the overgrown lawn, Immy’s dead weight growing heavier with every step. Heading for the private road that ran along the back of the houses, I passed a prefab garage outside which Sheila’s Fiat 500 was parked. I scooted over and peered inside, on the off-chance she’d left the keys in the ignition.
She hadn’t.
I shifted Immy in my arms and glanced back at the house. The front door was closed. I blinked. This time I was certain I’d left it open. What if I’d only caught Sheila a glancing blow, and she’d regained consciousness and followed me out of the house? My gaze slid to the lounge window, and I stiffened as a curtain twitched. A brown shape appeared, and I exhaled. Not Sheila, but Bill, her inscrutable tabby cat.
A rough gravel path led past the garage before widening into a driveway with a five-bar gate at the end. I locked my fingers under Immy and half-ran, half-stumbled towards the gate. To my relief it wasn’t padlocked, and I lurched through it, finding myself on a potholed track.
I staggered along the track towards the main road, biting back tears as Immy’s blood-splattered head rolled from side to side on my shoulder. My arms felt as though they were being torn out of their sockets and my cheek was throbbing, but the thrum of distant traffic kept me putting one foot in front of the other.
At last, I reached the road, stepping straight out in front of a car, which screeched to a stop metres from me, its tyres leaving a trail of burning rubber on the asphalt. The white-faced driver jumped out and yelled, ‘Jesus. I nearly hit you!’
‘I’m sorry,’ I cried. ‘But you need to help me. It’s my daughter. She’s…’
I was interrupted by another car, which slewed to a halt behind me. The driver, clocking the blood pouring from my cheek, switched on her hazard lights and ran over.
‘Oh my God!’ she shouted. ‘Are you all right?’
‘I’m OK, but my little girl…’ I ran out of words.
The woman nodded, and yelled at the first driver, ‘Call 999! Can’t you see they’ve been attacked?’
He pulled a phone from his jacket pocket. The woman touched my shoulder. She had straggly grey hair and a kind face. ‘It’s all right, you’re safe now,’ she soothed.
As my legs threatened to buckle, she grabbed my
